Betrayal
by Not Days but Knights
Summary: Despite Wilson’s obvious fury, devastation and loss, he cannot stifle those terrifying feelings he’s held for House for all of these years, causing him to struggle not only with the loss of Amber, but with his feelings toward that immature man. Post 4x16
1. Restless Night

Betrayal

Betrayal

House/Wilson, discussions of Amber

Post season 4, spoilers for Wilson's Heart

PG 13 for alcohol references, possible language

Summary: Despite Wilson's obvious fury, devastation and loss over Amber's death and towards House's immaturity, Wilson cannot stifle those terrifying feelings he's held for House for all of these years. As a result, the struggles he faces consist not only of loss and mourning, but attempting to come to terms with the devastating fact that he still is in love with this immature being.

Wilson's head spun with the overwhelming emotions that fluttered within his mind. The small, crumpled piece of paper he'd been clutching periodically to his heart now lay in his limp hand as he remained still on the bed, the moon shining brightly outside his window, providing the only source of light in his room. As Wilson continued to gaze up at the ceiling fan, he felt as though that fan above him mirrored his own feelings, and however dizzy and nauseous the rotating machine caused him to feel, he could not bring himself to rise from his spot on the bed.

He wanted to open that small reminder from Amber which lay in his palm, but the wrenching pain in his heart prevented him from moving a muscle. His body felt limp and lifeless, as if it had an overdramatic will never to move again. Wilson sighed, slowly becoming consciously aware of how dry his eyes were, and how stiff his body was. He had not moved from that wretched spot since he had come home from the hospital. As soon as he had seen that small, loving letter from Amber, Wilson had known that his entire day had come full circle. That little note was a reminder of everything that had happened over the past few days, and what could have happened if somehow, fate had played itself out in some less evil form.

If only he had not had been on call, Amber would not have died. If only Amber had said no, she wouldn't drive House home, Amber would be in bed next to him, sleeping peacefully. If only House had not been drunk...

Alas, House again came to the center of Wilson's sorrows and as the room continued to spin as it had over the last several hours, Wilson felt furious frustration flame up in his chest, and he almost developed the urge to throw his single reminder of Amber across the room. Once again, House's immature, irresponsibility was responsible for Wilson's suffering. Despite the emphasis the duo had placed on personal growth and change ever since Wilson and Amber had begun dating, Amber's death made it perfectly clear to Wilson that House had never changed. It was infuriating, as if he had been betrayed by his own feelings, and once again, by House. He had finally trusted House, as if he had been able to identify that desired human growth within his best friend during those joyous months.

But now, it was clear that House had been drowning himself even more emphatically in his own flaws, seeking alcohol and such to comfort the apparent loss of his best friend. House's jealousy mixed with childish greed had probably forced House to do anything for his best friend's attention – including getting drunk. The idea was utterly pitiful, and Wilson clicked his tongue in disgust at the thought. He wished that House could not have sunk thus far into the horrible depths of such selfishness and neediness but, with a sigh, Wilson knew lamenting and wishing, "what if..." was utterly pointless.

Perhaps what was the worst about all of this, besides the obvious pain of losing the most beloved woman he'd ever met, was that those subconscious feelings he'd attempted to stifle for House had not been stifled. On the contrary, these feelings shamefully floated to the front of Wilson's mind, pushing his mind into a deeper torment. This was the worst betrayal of all; his own desires.

It was sheer absurdity that after all of this, Wilson could still find something attractive within his best friend. It was shameful that he still considered this traitor his best friend. The blame for this entire emotional train wreck obviously belonged to House, and Wilson was rightfully furious at him for everything. Yet, despite all of this outward anger, a twisted feeling of pity and, frightfully, compassion seemed to exist like a whisper on the wind in Wilson's mind. His mind was shockingly attempting to argue that although House was, indeed, responsible for absolutely everything, that "everything" included Amber's diagnosis, his attempts to save her, and most importantly, those beautiful - although temporary - moments of self-sacrifice in which House had surrendered his priority of diagnostics for the sake of his best friend. Images of Amber unconscious in the ambulance hour prior filled Wilson's head. House had unwillingly allowed Wilson to freeze Amber in an attempt to slow her heart rate, and most obviously, freeze time. But even before Amber's life hung in the balance, House had forced himself to let go of Wilson because he had, in that moment, possessed values and morality.

It was this raw, underlying beauty within House that caused Wilson to feel continuous admiration and even adoration towards him. The fact that House _could_ change if he wanted to was a continuous source of hope and comfort for Wilson, especially now that Amber was gone. He could no longer find solace in Amber's presence, and a horrible wave of emptiness washed over Wilson. He sadly longed for her presence, or anybody's presence for that matter. Even House's touch would've been twistingly welcoming.

In a cruel paradox, the foolish love that Wilson still undeniably possessed for House made him realize that he was betraying Amber's memory. He had loved her too, and always would. That was for certain. She had brought such joy to his life, and introduced him to such a different way of viewing life. Amber had been a beautiful breath of fresh air, and no matter how much House insisted on her being Cut Throat Bitch, Wilson refused to see her as such. To him, Amber was change – a beautiful concept which Wilson knew House could never see, let alone acknowledge with a positive mindset. All of this was established within Wilson's whirling mind, but for now, he could not bring himself to entirely face it all. It was clearly a multi-layered process of grief and acceptance, and then finally and hopefully, he'd be able to rebuild everything once again, without betraying anybody.

Perhaps now, in this time of grief, a new opportunity would present itself in which House could prove himself to Wilson. All those missed chances for change and now, with Amber's final footprints left behind, she had still given House the chance to change. Wilson continued to foolishly hope, as he finally released Amber's note from his sweating palm, that House would grow up. Amber had that strange power over other individuals, either through her aggressive behavior, or through her beautiful devotion to those whom she loved. Through either perspective, Wilson could only view her as a continuous inspiration, which caused his heart to give one final attempt to cling onto her.

Wilson bit his lip in an attempt to hold back overwhelming emotion as the sun began to rise outside his window, forcing the moon into hiding. The day had come at last, and before Wilson could begin to mourn Amber, or even face House, he knew at this point he would have to face the coming day.

_One step at a time, _he told himself as he closed his eyes and turned on his side, _ just face this one step at a time..._

With that, as the morning sun continued to gradually pour into the room, Wilson's breathing slowed and his grip relaxed as he finally fell asleep.


	2. Early Phone Call

Betrayal

Betrayal

House/Wilson, discussions of Amber

Post season 4, spoilers for Wilson's Heart

PG 13 for alcohol references, possible language

Summary: Despite Wilson's obvious fury, devastation and loss, he cannot stifle those terrifying feelings he's held for House for all of these years. As a result, the struggles he faces consist not only of loss and mourning, but attempting to come to terms with the devastating fact that he still is in love with this immature being.

--

Chapter 2

Wilson woke with a start to a sharp, irritating ringing coming from the bedside table. Groaning slightly as he stirred from his sleep, he reached for the phone.

"H-hello?" he asked, attempting to rub his weary eyes with his free hand.

"Hello, Wilson?" a familiar female voice asked worriedly from the other line.

"Cuddy?" Wilson moaned, still sounding half-asleep.

"Oh, how are you?" Cuddy responded, worry still lingering in her tone.

"Fine," Wilson grumbled, attempting to end this conversation as quickly as possible in order to get some proper sleep. He stole a glance at his watch: 9:00 in the morning. His hand slid down his face as he groaned once again – he'd only managed to get approximately 4 hours of sleep.

"That's it?" Cuddy continued, attempting to divulge as much information as she could. "'Fine' enough to come to work?"

"Uhm," Wilson's eyes had returned to his watch, following the ticking seconds hand as it raced around the face of his watch. "What are the consequences if I answer 'no'?"

Wilson heard a small sigh on the other end, followed by a short pause. He deduced that Cuddy was lost in thought.

"Nothing," she finally responded, "I should have guessed that you were up all night. I'm sorry."

"No, no, it's fine, really," Wilson insisted, resuming his typical manner of attempting to be consistently cordial, "I'll come if you need me."

"What? Are you crazy? You've just lost your girlfriend – you must be having a hard time," Cuddy attempted to reason, the perspectives of the two individuals switching at the speed of sound.

Wilson bit his lip as Amber's memory flooded his mind. He couldn't bring himself to respond. Cuddy, sensing the silence on the other end, presented the final word on the matter.

"No, Wilson, stay home today. Your patients and the clinic can manage without you for as long as you need. If you want me to visit you, I'm here for you."

Cuddy heard Wilson stammer as he tried to argue back, followed by a sigh of submission. "Yeah, thanks," he said dismissively, placing his index finger and thumb on his nose bridge, "thanks a lot, Cuddy."

"Of course," Cuddy replied comfortingly. Wilson knew that if she was speaking with him face to face, she would have placed her hand welcomingly on his shoulder, piercing him with her concerned eyes. Wilson felt a sense of odd relief that he was alone.

Cuddy then took a sharp intake of breath before she spoke, causing Wilson to listen with slight anticipation – she was definitely about to tread into deeper waters.

"Listen, House was discharged as a patient this morning..."

"So?" Wilson felt himself give a bitter, sharp reply. He couldn't help but feel terribly bitter at the mentioning of House's name. "Good for him."

"I've put him back to work, full-time and with clinic duty."

"Fantastic," Wilson replied tiredly. He was slowly losing patience with this strained source of support.

"I'm just telling you, so you know that none of us here are trying to draw attention to your troubles. We just want you to feel better."

"'We'?" Wilson demanded. "You mean you and...?"

There was a slight hesitation; "House... and I..."

"Like I would believe _that _for a second--"

"You should," Cuddy insisted. "He's been moping ever since you visited him last night and just left him there."

"How would you know – you were sleeping when I visited him!" Wilson demanded – he really just wanted a reason for Cuddy to break down and admit she was lying about House's compassion. He refused to believe House would blink an eye at him during the present.

"Whenever House accepts clinic duty without a word or whine, something's wrong."

"So you just guessed it had to do with me? Why is it always me?" Anger was starting to give an edge to Wilson's voice.

"Because no one else comes even close to understanding House, or making him tick."

"Well, did you ever think that I wouldn't want to talk to him after something like this?"

"Yes, but he wants to talk to you."

"No – no way I'm driving all the way up to Plainsboro just to start yelling in his face. I'm not in the mood."

"He's willing to visit you," Cuddy said quickly, trying to get in as much as she could before the inevitable moment of the phone hitting the receiver.

"I don't care – I'm not in the mood to start throwing things. He never considers my feelings in all of this, ever. I'm sick of it."

"I understand, Wilson. But just listen to me: House is willing to try. You should see that as a change, and possibly for the better."

"House has been trying to change for the past several months. Key word here being 'try'. And all it's done is cause_ this_." Wilson was shouting pointedly into the phone now.

"You're blaming_ House_ for Amber's death?" Cuddy was incredulous. Wilson was never this irrational unless he was extremely upset. Perhaps the past day had not taught her anything about Wilson's ability to love, and now she was going to suffer for it.

"No, I'm blaming House for his responsibilities, and immaturity which have been ruining my life, and was the whole reason Amber was on that damn bus."

"Wilson, I – I'm sorry," Cuddy tried a different, more empathetic tactic.

"I know you're sorry. I – I don't need to hear it."

"But you do need to hear it from House."

"In a fantasy world, I would need to hear a lot of things from House," Wilson said, gritting his teeth and pacing in his pajamas up and down his bedroom.

"Well, then why are you pushing away this fantastic opportunity to hear apologies from House?" Cuddy was incredulous, and the entire conversation itself seemed to have taken a very sharp turn.

"Because there's no way on earth that House would come crawling to me like I always do to him, and ask for forgiveness."

"What if he is? It's come down to this, Wilson. House is trying to change, and the real question is: are you going to let him?"

Wilson paused for breath, allowing his mind to reel for a couple of seconds. This entire conversation seemed out of place, not to mention too early. He figured he'd have the house to himself for at least a week before Cuddy called, and for another month before House would even dare call him. House was a gradual healer, if he was willing to heal at all. His infarction was a literal symbol of that. So why on earth was House so eager to see him now? Wilson felt a twinge within his gut; his feelings were utterly contradictory. He wanted to see House, to have his best friend come to him with wholehearted apologies and a chance for a new relationship. On the other hand, he knew that seeing House would only create more problems, rather than dissipate those which already existed. It was too much, Wilson knew already, for him to handle.

"No," he said, resignedly.

"'No'?"

"I'm sorry, Lisa. Even if House is ready... I'm not."

The use of her first name startled Cuddy, and it took her a few seconds longer to regain her composure. Whenever any of her fellow colleagues used her first name, a line was usually drawn through that personal power. She felt dismissed, and knew that her attempts were futile.

"Take care, Wilson," she said quietly. With that, she hung up the phone.

Wilson held the receiver for a moment as the dial tone beeped in his ear. With a sigh of exhaustion, he then rolled back into his bed, curled up and slowly fell asleep once more.

"What did he say?" asked a low, gravelly voice from behind Cuddy. She spun sharply as the receiver clicked to end her call, facing a weary-eyed, impatient-looking House. Cuddy gave House her typical, authoritative glance, followed by a sympathetic look as she turned her head sideways slightly and gave a small frown.

House raised his eyebrows, slowly attempting to gather as much information from the Dean of Medicine's body language. At last, feeling slightly rejected, he gazed at the floor.

"Fine," he muttered. Cuddy looked on, biting her lip in hesitated sympathy.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Don't be. I'm going to visit him anyway."

"Don't overstay your visit, House. You have a tendency to do that."

"I'm housetrained," he quipped, tossing his cane up and down before setting off down the hall towards the elevator. As he hit the elevator button, he then turned to yell at Cuddy down the hall.

"You're not going to stop me?" he was actually surprised by her apparent indifference.

"It's not my place to stand between you and Wilson, or to force you two to do anything. You're on your own." The last sentence was said at a casual volume, but House could hear her words even as he stepped into the elevator and vanished from view.


	3. Scene of a Contradictory Nature

Chapter 3

Wilson was happily asleep when his doorbell rang, waking him up once again with a start. He stared grumpily up at the ceiling, scowling at the thought of someone being at his door, disturbing what had been the only source of peace for him; his sleep. He lay under the covers, in his work clothes from the day before, cringing slightly as the doorbell rang again, this time with a clear impatience as the bell rang over and over again: _dingdong dingdong._

Despite his reflexes which tempted him to leap out of bed and open the door, Wilson remained in his brooding stew, stubbornly refusing to answer the door. There was only one person in the world who would want to visit him, and would show their impatience by ringing the doorbell until his head exploded. It was this individual that Wilson absolutely did not want to see, possibly ever again.

The doorbell had reaching a chiming chorus, with the dinging occurring non-stop. Wilson let out a small groan of irritated frustration, and rolled over onto his stomach, pulling his pillows over his head. Suddenly, Wilson heard the ringing cease, followed by a small click and the sound of his door creaking open. Wilson felt his heart begin to race, and his increased breathing rate made the cave under his pillow suddenly very warm. In spite of his noisy breathing and the pounding of his heart which echoed in his ear, Wilson listened intently to the slow, steady sound of footsteps followed by the thudding of a cane on the hardwood floor. Wilson had forgotten that House had been in Amber's apartment many times before, which explained why the footsteps sounded as though they were moving deliberately and with definite purpose towards this very bedroom in which Wilson was struggling to hide himself away.

At last, Wilson heard the footsteps enter his room, and the creaking of the floorboards became louder and louder, becoming more maddening with each step House took. Wilson could almost feel House's presence as the footsteps ceased right next to his bed, the cane making a final, defining thud on the floor as he arrived. Wilson continued to feign being asleep as he felt his best friend – or rather, former best friend – breathed with an air of calmness, although Wilson could almost feel the mounting tension in the room as he imagined House hesitating slightly at the side of the bed, planning the best method of approach. He heard a slight mumble escape House's lips, although the words were inaudible. He then heard a release of air in the form of a sight, followed by the sound of fabric moving as though House had raised his arm to his head and scratched it.

As what felt like minutes passed, Wilson felt awkwardness mount to an almost unbearable level. Why was is taking so long for House to make his attack? Was he trying to force him to go mad, yell in frustration and then give away his position as a cowardly, depressed wreck? It seemed like a typical move, and it was this thought that forced Wilson to maintain his position, pushing for House to finally break the silence.

"Y'know, most people are in the fourth stage of REM sleep by the time their head makes it to underneath the pillow. Your breathing tells me you're in... about zero."

Wilson sighed from underneath his pillow, attempting to ignore the introductory attack.

"Of course, there is no "zero" REM cycle, so stop pretending to be asleep, Wilson," he then leaned right on top of Wilson's head, his face inches from the protective pillow. Wilson felt the edge of his mattress sink slightly as House's hands sank into it to support himself. Wilson stubbornly refused to budge, stifling a moan of aggravation.

"You're pathetic," House dismissed, lowering his head so that his words were aimed directly at the pillow.

"Look who's talking," Wilson finally grumbled back, not moving from underneath the pillow.

"Oh, please," House rolled his eyes, turning round in order to take a seat on the edge of Wilson's mattress. Wilson felt the bedsprings groan as a dramatic shift in weight occurred; he deduced that House had made the first step in making himself at home for the upcoming conversation. "You're the one who's pushing people away," he paused, cocking his head to one side as he chuckled slightly.

"Funny," he then said, a bit more quietly than normal, his voice achieving a low growl, "usually you're the one saying this to me."

"Well, everyone has their high points," Wilson said sarcastically, beginning to slide out from his cavern. As he withdrew entirely, turning on his back so his head rested on his pillow and his eyes could fix on House's back, he spoke, "Go away, House."

"Absolutely devastating argument! I can't think of a way to reply! No. I'm not leaving," House replied with equal mockery and sarcasm.

"Why so resilient? What do you want, House?" Wilson demanded irritably. He had no time for House's feigned sympathies and comfort. He just wanted to be alone, and knew that nothing House could say would motivate him to go out into the open and forget Amber. After all, that's all House wanted, Wilson was sure of it; for him to forget Amber, not to mourn her. It was this immediate assumption that Wilson stuck to, and irritated him the most. Everything came down to House's poor character, and now that his poor qualities would strike home in a way that had never been done before, Wilson felt his anger rising.

"I want," House began, adopting a quiet, yet sharp and directive tone, "to apologize." He then rose from Wilson's bed, beginning to pace with his cane as Wilson slowly sat up, turning to place himself where House had sat moments before. He watched his friend with scrutinizing eyes.

"No you don't," Wilson said sharply. He had been prepared for this.

"You haven't even let me say what I want to apologize _for,_" House insisited.

"I don't need to hear it. I know what you're going to say, and it won't change anything."

"Fine, if you're such a clairvoyant, what am I going to say?"

"'I'm sorry about Amber, but there will be other, less bitchy women out there for a man as disposable as his three wives.' Something of that insensitive, typical House sort." To Wilson's surprise, House stopped pacing and shot him a slightly surprised, dumbstruck and even wounded expression.

"As a matter of fact," he said quietly, his gaze moving from Wilson's face to the floor, "that wasn't what I was going to say." Wilson's eyebrows vanished into his hairline with slight confusion, his mind darting to one irrational possibility after the other. House wouldn't – couldn't – have something else to talk about? What would be worse, besides the fact that his haunting dreams from the night previous would come true, is that all of this would come to be in the middle of this hour of grief. No, not now – surely he wouldn't do that now... _He couldn't, _Wilson reminded himself, _because everything that's tormenting you is nonexistent – ridiculous. Let it go._

"I, uh," House began, showing unusual clumsiness and disorganization with his words. Wilson's heart plummeted – it sounded as though House was about to begin a speech his ears were not ready to hear. Why was he so willing to expect this news from House? It wasn't as if it had always been obvious... well, perhaps it had, but Wilson had always refused to notice it. He wished, despite himself, that he could still be able to refuse what was in plain sight: a tangled mess.

"I..." House began again, "like you," he finished lamely.

"Oh, that makes me feel a lot better about everything. You _like _me. Great. Fantastic," Wilson was flippant. House gritted his teeth with annoyance and impatience as Wilson began to laugh with his maniacal edge – an action usually taken when Wilson's anger and disbelief reached a boiling point.

"What am I supposed to say to that, House?" Wilson demanded between his outraged laughter. House could only bite his lip and look away uncomfortably. "I mean," Wilson began, rising out of his seat, his hands behind his head as he began to pace the floor, "of all of the times you could've chosen to tell me, you figured _now _would be the best time?" he chuckled maniacally again, grinning and shaking his head in frustrated disbelief.

"You're not upset about what I said," House began to argue, slowly raising his gaze from the floor, "just that I said it?"

"No, what I'm upset about," Wilson replied sharply, "is that you thought this was the best time to tell me. You haven't changed at all, House. You're just as insensitive to my feelings as you've ever been. Get out," Wilson's voice was full of frustration – no matter how much rightful fury he possessed, there was a nagging feeling in his heart that wanted House to stay. It was terrifying to Wilson that his heart was trying to maintain a hold on House, while he was still outwardly and more importantly furious at House for Amber's sake.

"You care that I'm confessing this to you right after your girlfriend's death, but you don't care that I like you in the first place?" House ignored Wilson's attack, attempting to pry the truth from Wilson. Wilson shook his head with annoyance.

"No, because right now, my girlfriend's death means a lot more to me than your selfish insensitivity." Wilson felt his eyes slowly watering involuntarily. He bit his lip and turned away from House, as they now stood on separate ends of the room, as if worlds away.

"What were you planning on accomplishing with this, House? How on earth could this make anything better?" he asked, facing the opposite wall.

House felt stung, as it was his turn to shake his head sadly. He made no attempt to reply, as uncharacteristic shame swept over his body. Naturally, he had intended to cheer Wilson up somehow, and instead, he'd received a vicious blow to the gut.

"I'm just trying to help," he finally muttered, more to himself than to Wilson's back. "I can't really do anything else..." his voice began to rise with slight anger, "what do you want me to do? Bring Amber back?"

He'd touched a nerve. Wilson's shoulders began to shake uncontrollably as he sank into a small fit of dry sobs, still facing coldly away from House. House gazed at the utterly devastated figure of his best friend, and his heart sank even further – he knew he'd only made things worse. His mind told him to leave, but his heart and feet demanded that he stay.

As a small sort of compromise, his feet led him to Wilson's back, and House felt his left hand rise to Wilson's right shoulder, giving him a small pat of comfort. Wilson gave a small start at this unexpected touch, his heart fluttering despite himself, only increasing his anger. He felt his shoulder slide away from House in an attempt to tell him to leave. House's fingers slipped from their spot on Wilson's shoulder, and House remained behind Wilson, silent and staring.

"I am sorry, Wilson. I'm sorry for what happened... and for what I couldn't do; for what none of us could do," he began to back slowly away from his friend, who had fallen silent but still refused to face House. "I wish I could change things... but sometimes you just can't—"

"I don't need to hear your favorite philosophy, House," Wilson cut him off bitterly, his throat slightly hoarse. "Just go."

Recognizing temporary defeat, House bowed slightly at Wilson's back and then headed towards the front door of the apartment. Wilson winced as the door slammed shut, leaving him in an echoing silence. He let out a sigh as he sank onto his bed, hands at his forehead and began to let everything that had happened wash over him like waves of contradictory shock. What had he done?


	4. Two Weeks Notice

Chapter 4

For the second time that morning, Wilson found himself on his bed in his old clothes, wearily trying to fight off sleep. It felt as though sleeping was the only thing his body was willing to do – it was the easiest way to mope and not think. Wilson knew he was going through grief, but it didn't make the situation any easier. Nor did the fact that his best friend had just randomly entered the apartment and announced that he had feelings for him. It made Wilson's stomach flutter slightly to think about it, only then to be followed by a wave of frustrated anger.

What was he supposed to do with that news; embrace House wholeheartedly and act as though nothing traumatic had happened the nights before? Ignore the fact that House had played a role in her death, whether the two of them were willing to admit it or not? He'd been over this torment millions of times in the past 24 hours, and House's personal feelings only made the situation worse. He felt as though he was at a stalemate with himself, as well as with House. No matter how much he wanted to push away everything and just let time pass at a lazy rate, Wilson knew that he was going to have to take action in order to escape this stalemate. This "action" meant resuming work and attempting to move on with life, which also meant seeing Cuddy... and House.

Wilson groaned; he had trapped himself in this cage, and unlike the tale of Daniel, Wilson felt that the lion preparing to pounce was untamable. He was powerless in this situation, as House would always exist in his life, no matter what he did or where he was.

Suddenly, a radical, yet very practical idea occurred to Wilson: to resign. After all, resigning meant the potential ability to move away from everything, especially from House. He would never have to face this man again, nor the struggles that were a given with his presence. Yes, resigning would mean starting over and building a new life, but perhaps this was for the better... for both of them. Even if House didn't want it, Wilson knew he needed this chance to wipe the slate clean. He had wanted to let go, so why not let go of everything?

Feeling slightly lighter with this drastic decision, Wilson arose from his bed and went to his closet to get dressed and head over to Princeton; he was going to tell Cuddy his plan and then prepare to pack his things. As soon as he could cram everything into boxes and leave, he would – the sooner the better. No drawn out goodbyes, no promises to keep in touch; the quicker this was done, the less painful it would be for everyone, and that was what Wilson wanted the most.

--

Wilson kept his head down and his feet moving rapidly as he entered the lobby of Princeton Plainboro, determined to make it to the elevator as quickly as possible. Luckily, he was not stopped nor stared at as far as he could tell, and strode hurriedly into the elevator as its doors began to slide shut. He let out a sigh as he finally situated himself in the corner of the elevator, slowly glancing around in the typical awkward fashion of an individual crammed into an elevator with another person. This other person, however, seemed to have no sense of personal space, as it took a half step in order to stand closer to Wilson. Wilson, as he continued to look down at the floor, saw the two familiar shoes accompanied by a cane and felt his heart rise and expand in his throat. He fixed his gaze determinedly on the floor, refusing eye contact and conversation. It was stupid and immature, but Wilson knew there was nothing he could say that would make the situation any better.

"Why are you here?" House asked, breaking the silence as the elevator continued to rise. Wilson gave a small start from House's harsh tone, as well as due to the fact that he had decided to speak to him at all.

"Cuddy needed me at the clinic," Wilson said, deciding on the spot it was better to lie at the present moment.

House raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I suppose low cut blouses and a feminine curve have a better influence on you than anything else..." he said scathingly. Wilson rolled his eyes – this was a perfect example of what he needed to escape from.

"Yes, House, it was her feminine charm," he replied, keeping up the sarcastic theory. He threw his elevator companion a sideways glance as if to say, "Shut up, please."

Luckily for Wilson, the elevator let out a ding, signifying that they had reached their floor. He wasted no time in hurrying out of the elevator as soon as the metallic doors slid open, leaving House to hobble alone in his wake. As soon as his key was in the doorknob, beginning to unlock the door to his office, Wilson felt House's presence behind him. He froze, not daring to turn in case House had closed the gap of personal space between them. Instead, he spoke to House with his back turned, starting to fumble again with the keys.

"Why are you going into your office if you're working in the clinic?" House had found the hole in Wilson's lie. Wilson had to stifle a cringe as the door swung inward and he entered his office. He continued towards his desk, setting his empty briefcase on his desk as he slid into his familiar chair.

"I can put my stuff down and get situated if I want," Wilson shrugged from his seat. House continued to scrutinize his friend, attempting to find the truth behind this awkward, yet clearly lying, Wilson.

"Your briefcase is empty," House observed – only he would be able to notice the light, empty thud that the case had made when Wilson had set it down. His eyes seemed to widen as his mind reeled.

"You're wearing a red t-shirt," Wilson snapped back.

"Funny, usually I'm more observant than you."

"Leave me alone, House."

"Ah, it only took you five minutes this time to get to that!" House grinned mockingly, throwing his free hand around in a faux comedic, throwaway gesture.

"Seriously, go away."

"Hmm, I would," House began, closing his eyes and looking at the floor as he began to walk towards Wilson's desk, "but seeing as we work in this hospital together, on the same floor, have lunch together, all that fun stuff, I don't really tend to 'go away'."

"Can't you respect my wishes for once in your life?" Wilson asked despairingly.

"You're really wallowing in self-pity," House criticized sharply.

"Amber's dead, partly because of me, and partly because of you," he paused, taking a deep breath. "Mostly because of you," he finished, looking away from House as he said it. "Therefore, I think I have a pretty good reason to 'wallow in self-pity', as you put it."

"Oh, grow up," House snapped, leaning in slightly to raise his voice at his friend.

"As a matter of fact," Wilson said, his eyebrows furrowing as his face shifted into one of anger and frustration, "I am. I'm leaving. Moving on. Growing up."

House's face softened with unsuppressed shock. "Leaving and growing up are two different things," he said quietly. "You're still running from everything," he continued, his voice still softer and quiet as he bit back his anger and disbelief.

"I'm going to live a new life, away from this place that's only brought me one trouble after another starting with you and ending with you," Wilson said harshly. It hurt him to say it, but he knew it was the truth. What was worse was the absolutely stung and crestfallen look that House developed as the words left his lips, causing Wilson to feel pangs of guilt.

"You're an idiot," said House softly. "You've brought a lot of this on yourself. You—"

But House's voice trailed off as he recognized the form of Cuddy enter the room, looking very confused and utterly bewildered.

"Why are you here?" House demanded, still maintaining his low and quiet voice.

"I saw that you weren't in your office, and Wilson's was open," Cuddy explained in her typical authoritative voice. "What's wrong, Wilson? I told you to stay home and that we'd find someone to cover for you. Why are you here?" Her hand slid to her hip and her voice was full of sympathy, as well as deep concern. Wilson bit his lip and refused to speak for a few moments, gathering the strength to deliver the news.

"I – I'm leaving," he finally spoke.

"Leaving?" Cuddy asked, disbelief in every aspect of her voice.

"He's always wanted to be a farmer—" House quipped, anger unmistakably edging his voice.

"Shut up, House," Cuddy commanded, not breaking her gaze from Wilson. For once, House fell silent.

"Why?" Cuddy asked again, still attempting to maintain control over her feelings of shock.

"This place is a nightmare. I can't take it anymore," Wilson sighed. "I need to start over, and get away from..." he hesitated, catching himself from saying "House". "To get away from everything that reminds me of what could've been," he compromised. As he spoke, he thought he saw House, out of the corner of his eye, hang his head.

"Well, I'm not letting you just pack your things and leave," Cuddy said sharply. "You're obviously upset, and not thinking right. I'll let you resign," she then said, holding up her hand since Wilson had begun to show signs of protest, "but you are on two weeks notice. Use the time to think about what you're doing, think about Amber, and then move on properly, not irrationally. We need you here, Wilson. We want you here. Two weeks."

With that, Cuddy strode out of the room as if she had just finished a very typical and formal business meeting. Wilson was not sorry to see the back of her exit his office – her words had only made his guilt rise. He placed his head in his hands and let out a small sigh, temporarily forgetting that House was still in his office, observing his every move.

"See you at lunch," House said, moving towards the door with a smile playing slightly on his face; he had two weeks to make Wilson stay.


	5. Talks

Chapter 5

Wilson's ears were buzzing as he attempted to pour over a patient's files in his office. His attention wandered from moment to moment as his eyes slid blurredly over the paperwork, then lazily out of the window, only then to snap back to his paperwork. Occasionally, Wilson thought he felt his eyelids droop entirely, and gave a deep intake of breath as he forced himself to wake up. It wasn't that the work was entirely dull (although he did observe that he did paperwork far too much to be enjoyed), but that his mind was simply focused elsewhere. The buzzing in his ears did not cease, which made his body even more impatient and unfocused.

At last he gave a sigh, dropping his pen from his left hand as he looked out of his window into the bright sunlight. It was clear that he wasn't going to be able to do his work in this atmosphere, and Wilson became resolved to simply take his work elsewhere. If he ceased working at all, his mind would wander into more dangerous territories: House, Amber, and what could be. No, it was better to keep his mind occupied with the busy work in front of him, just, perhaps, in a room less haunting and ringing with silence.

With that, Wilson gathered his files and resolved on the spot to head to the cafeteria, where he could work comfortably in a booth with the drowning chatter of fellow doctors and nurses. His journey downstairs went undisrupted, although he knew that House and his fellows were gazing at him out of the corner of their eyes as he passed the conference room. None of them had turned their heads in obvious observation, but there was no mistaking that feeling of eyes at the back of his head as Wilson waited for the elevator.

About ten minutes later, Wilson found himself situated fairly comfortably at an isolated booth, his files spread out before him and a sandwich resting untouched off to the side. Sure enough, the buzz of chattering people drowned out the ringing and buzzing in his own ears, and unlike any other time, Wilson felt satisfied by the background noise. Feeling like the extra in an extravagant movie scene, Wilson set to work, slowly blending into the background as the solitary figure working hurriedly away in the corner. Unfortunately for Wilson, his solitary work efforts did not go unnoticed for too long.

After about an hour, Wilson felt the presence of Cuddy at the head of his booth, and Wilson knew he ought to prepare himself for a lengthy discussion. If it had been House, Wilson knew he would've kept on working, relentlessly avoiding his gaze. Yet, seeing as it was a friend, as well as his superior, he glanced up at Cuddy's stern and concerned face to acknowledge her presence.

"May I join you?" she invited herself to sit down slowly as she spoke. Wilson could only nod and made an effort to look busy as he glanced down at his papers. Cuddy put a hand over his work, forcing him to look up into her face.

"Can I... talk to you?" she asked, inclining her head to convey the fact that she wanted to talk with him, not just sit with him stupidly. Wilson shrugged in response, but did not send her away.

"Yikes, House must've said something awful to put you in a state like this," she said, horror creeping slightly into her tone of voice.

"It... wasn't what I had expected," Wilson replied, trying to beat about the bush. Hopefully these vague responses would be enough for Cuddy. Yet, knowing Cuddy, she would remain resilient and somehow pry the whole truth from Wilson. Somehow, he was not too upset with this prospect, although he would not hand it to her on a silver platter – the information was still personal.

"Did he apologize?"

"Yeah, he did."

Cuddy looked surprised, and her eyebrows slowly rose upwards. "What did he say, exactly?"

Wilson shrugged yet again, "'I wanted to apologize,'" he quoted, leaving out the fact that afterwards, House had dived into an awkward, slightly romantic confession.

"That's it?" Cuddy asked, her voice betraying a sense of disappointment and disbelief. "No drawn out, self-pitying speech? No yelling match between you two?"

"We did argue," Wilson confessed, laying down the foundations for the whole truth. "But it was over his insensitivities, lack of respect – his typical behavior, in other words."

"Uh-huh," Cuddy nodded, but the look she gave Wilson was one that made it clear she wasn't buying any of this. Wilson sighed, rolling his eyes as he gave in.

"He confessed that he likes me," he muttered at last, trying to look nonchalantly busy with his paperwork.

"What? That he 'likes' you? Is this first grade?" Cuddy blinked rapidly in disbelief, holding her hands out as she challenged Wilson's word choice.

"Don't blame me, that's just what he told me," Wilson remarked, holding his hand up to cease her speech.

"And this is why you want to resign?" Cuddy jumped the gun – Wilson hadn't been expecting her to reach this point at all.

"He reminds me of Amber," Wilson argued. "He reminds me of everything that happened yesterday, and what could've happened if he hadn't been his typical drunk, irresponsible self. He reminds me of how I felt about Amber, and—"

"How you feel about him," Cuddy, once again, jumped the gun. Wilson pursed his lips together, blushing slightly despite himself.

"Yes," he gritted his teeth and turned away, furious with himself that he was willing to admit it. "Is it so wrong to want to get away from all of that? It's a nightmare – I loathe having to hate and love someone at the same time. It just doesn't work."

"So tell him!" Cuddy insisted. Wilson could only groan in response. "Look," Cuddy began, "I think it will help. Really, I do. Maybe it'll teach House to step away for a while, because he'll know that you want to be with him, but just that it will take time for things to heal."

"But I _don't _want to be with him. I love him, but I resent him."

"Only because you're thinking of the House that has always been unwilling to change. Maybe if he knows that you want him, he'll change for you. If he really wants you, he'll be willing to give sacrifices."

Wilson was reminded of a small scene he had shared with House outside in the snow a few months before. House had declared a twisted blessing for Wilson and Amber, only then to confess, as Wilson had deduced, that he was allowing himself to be self-sacrificing. Suddenly, it was clear to Wilson that House had been preparing himself for sacrifice for a long time, whether the two of them consciously knew it or not.

"I – I hope he is," Wilson said, nodding slowly. "He was, and hopefully that hasn't changed."

"Go talk to him," Cuddy said, placing a comforting hand on his own. "Things will work out in the end. They always do."

"Thanks," Wilson muttered, grateful for Cuddy's source of comfort beyond anything else. Although her advice was often confusing, vague or even utterly bizarre, Wilson also knew she was often right. Beyond anything, she was a friend, and he trusted her word. He gave her a small smile as she slid out of the booth and disappeared into the crowd of dining medics.

He was alone again, but this time with a small fire in his heart as he knew, if not today then perhaps tomorrow, that he would talk to House, and things would change. He arose from his booth, holding onto his files in one hand as he stretched. As he exited the cafeteria, he could have sworn he saw House wherever he looked, but he knew it was just his paranoia combined with fear that was forcing him to continue running from his problems. As he entered the hospital lobby, he instinctively looked towards the elevators. One gave a small ding and released a few people from its confinement, one of those people being, to Wilson's horror, House.

Wilson turned about-face and fled the hospital. _I'll do it tomorrow, _he concluded.


	6. A Strange Sense of Finality

**Author's note: This could potentially be the final chapter to this story, although yet again, it may not. I'm honestly unsure since it can go either way. I'll base my decision to continue this story based on feedback and opinions on whether or not it requires continuation. I have more - don't worry - it's just a matter of whether it needs it or not.**

Chapter 6

Wilson gave a deep intake of breath as he looked at himself in the mirror. His eyelids were puffy, and he still felt entirely groggy. It was 8:00 in the morning, and Wilson was already regretting the fact that he did not sleep very well at all the night prior.

His nerves had kept sleep at bay, forcing him into relentless tossing and turning, with the occasional hours of gazing upwards at the dark ceiling as he wished for sleep to wash over him. But the thought of telling House how he felt was the most terrifying and simultaneously satisfying feeling he had ever possessed. Not to mention his guilt stirred his heart rate as he always thought of Amber, remembered her beauty and her compassionate qualities underneath her rough and bitchy exterior. He had loved her, but the torments that were filling his mind at the present were about House, and somehow, Wilson knew that Amber's memory would be peacefully put to rest as soon as his conflict with House was resolved.

Perhaps it was the fact that House had always made himself inextricably linked to Amber with his behavior in the months prior, with exclamations such as "Oh my God, you're sleeping with me", or even his bargains with Amber over how much time he got to spend with his best friend. It was intimidating to Wilson as he gazed in retrospect and realized how this man and this woman had always somehow been joined at the hip.

All of those expository-like scenes between the three of them had led Wilson to this moment – he just knew it. Life had a very bizarre way of intricately weaving the lives and interests of others in and out of other individuals' own stories. But now, Wilson knew as he splashed cold water onto his face, all that remained for him was the next scene. Getting nervous or nostalgic would come to nothing, since everything would be determined by what he was about to do.

He dried his face off with a towel, giving a sigh of relief as he felt the cool air hitting his refreshed complexion. He then turned to gaze at himself in the mirror, scrutinizing his eyes, and then glancing at his hair, which was knotted and matted from his tossing. He rolled his eyes as he brought a brush to his head and began to attack the knots which were hiding in wait in that tangled mess. Yet, like everything else in his life, these knots would come undone.

At last, Wilson declared himself presentable, and exited his bathroom as physically prepared as possible for the task ahead. As he retrieved the newspaper from the doormat, and ripped it open as he sat down for a quick breakfast, he noticed that his hands were shaking, causing the entire paper to quiver loudly in his grasp. He resolved to lay the paper flat on the table, but it didn't stop his shaking hands. Coffee was clearly out of the question, so Wilson grabbed the carton of milk from the refrigerator, and placed a simple piece of bread into the toaster. He sat quietly, attempting not to think about anything – forcing his mind blank.

After the ordeal of breakfast ended, Wilson found himself departing from the apartment, taking the stairs two at a time, glancing worriedly over his shoulder every few seconds as if he expected House to pop out from behind the banisters. He shook his head like a wet dog, and nearly leapt into the car upon reaching the garage floor. Wilson was grateful that it was a Saturday morning, since it meant that there would be fewer people on the road – less people who would become upset and angry by his insane driving. His behavior continued to be as shifty, nervous and frightening up to the moment Wilson pulled up at House's home and turned the engine off.

He sat in the car for a few minutes, breathing heavily and purposefully, glancing frequently in the rear-view mirror to make sure that his physical appearance didn't mirror the terror inside of him. Within seconds, Wilson found himself at House's door, raising his hand gently to the wooden structure, and rapping at it rapidly. He stood awkwardly on the porch, bouncing gently on the balls of his feet, waiting for anything to happen.

The door swung open with a loud creak, and the groggy, ragged face of House greeted Wilson, whose gaze went from his face immediately to anywhere _but _his face. His heart raced, making his throat feel as if it was closing up.

"What do you want?" House scowled, obviously irritated at having been woken up. He was sporting a pair of boxers and a loose-fitting t-shirt. Wilson could not help but admire the image despite his nervous behavior.

"C-can I come in?" Wilson requested, scratching the back of his neck. House nodded, backing up to allow his friend entry. Wilson could feel his eyes resting at his back as he stepped over the entryway into the main hallway. The sight of House's apartment was as contradictorily pleasing and infuriating as the man himself, and Wilson's feelings only increased in confusion as he stood in House's apartment. Wilson stood awkwardly in the middle of the main hallway, his hands behind his back. He jumped slightly as he heard the door click shut behind him, and he spun around to see House resting nonchalantly, albeit slightly confusedly, on the closed door. He continued to scrutinize Wilson with utter curiosity.

"Listen," Wilson finally managed to stammer out, holding his hands out to indicate he was about to enter a speech. "I'm feeling very... confused... at the moment. I – I'll never forget Amber. She," he bit back those tears which were almost reflex now whenever he mentioned her name, "was such a beautiful change. I admired her, and I miss her a lot." Wilson couldn't help but feel that "a lot" was a lame summarization, but he did not correct himself.

House raised his eyebrows. "You didn't come here to write her epitaph. You could've done that all by your miserable lonesome. What do you want?"

"Your continued presence while we were dating, while I'm 'by my miserable lonesome' mourning her has confused me to no end. I didn't want to think it was because your were jealous, but your typical, extremely pushy behavior kept nagging me at the back of my mind. There was some part of me..." Wilson swallowed, taking a deep breath before he spoke, hesitating as long as he could. He wasn't entirely sure that he wanted House to know about his feelings, but an emotional instinct within Wilson was pulling him forward; at this rate, there was no turning back. "There's still some part of me that wanted you to be jealous."

"But now," Wilson gathered strength, beginning to pace the hallway in an attempt to ignore the slowly widening gaze of House's piercingly blue eyes. "I've had it with your insensitivity. Your presence itself has been driving me... insane. And don't take too much pride in that." Wilson pointed an accusing finger at House, who was biting back a strong smirk.

"It's unfair, what you're doing. You've been trying to steal attention from Amber, which just makes you as pathetic as always. You disgust me, House, and at the same time, I don't mind. And that's how I continue to betray Amber's memory. As long as you don't care about her, this will continue to happen to me. I get it – you've trapped me. Checkmate. You win – whatever you want me to say. But please, can't you just let me be? For once, House. You know you've won. So can't you please just leave me alone?"

"You wouldn't have come here," House grumbled, still maintaining a smirk on his lips as he stepped towards Wilson, "if you wanted me to leave you alone."

"Stop it – this is exactly what I'm talking about!" Wilson said, holding up his hands with a serious, although slightly frightened look on his face. He knew what was coming, and he couldn't let it happen. House was continuing to walk towards him, reaching that proximity which was dangerously close – too close for Wilson's liking. Wilson felt rooted to the spot, frozen in fear and frustration.

"You're too ashamed to admit that you like me," House stared directly into Wilson's eyes, which were blinking rapidly from his wave of anxious emotions.

"I'm not _ashamed _of you," Wilson defended himself, backing away slightly at last, "I'm terrified – l-look what you're doing to me! I can't tell what's right anymore. I don't know what I want. I didn't come here for answers, House. I came here to tell the truth."

"But you_ did _come here for answers," House insisted, still walking towards Wilson. Wilson could not help but feel he was dancing in some sort of tango; with every step House took towards him, he felt his feet lead him away, stepping to the rhythm of House's feet.

"I wanted to set things right!" Wilson felt anger rising in his voice now. "I wanted to come here and tell you, 'Yes, I like you', but I also wanted to tell you that you're the most selfish, arrogant man I've ever met in my life, and there's no way in hell that I'd be able to accept being with you. Not now, anyway. It's just..."

Wilson had literally hit a wall. He felt his back thud harshly against the end of the hallway, and suddenly he felt like a trapped mouse, trembling from the atmosphere of the scene. House strode to him, inches from his face and continued to stare into Wilson's eyes, searching for a lie, a breaking point. The two of them knew that Wilson was telling the truth, and that only pain would exist for them both if they dared to do what their hearts were begging for them to do. But they also knew that Wilson would never forgive himself. He couldn't let go of what had been.

"House," Wilson hoarsely whispered, "please..."

But it was too late – House had made his decision, and Wilson felt the result against his own lips, stifling all dialogue. House's lips were as contradictory to him as the rest of House's body. He welcomed them like an old friend, and his body felt strangely wholesome and relaxed. It was bliss, but as he continued to kiss his best friend back, Wilson felt a sinking feeling within his stomach. He had done the unthinkable, and what was worse was that he was enjoying it. It was as beautiful as he had dreamt it would be, but it didn't ease the pain he knew was beginning to settle within his heart and mind.

He gently pushed House's shoulders away, feeling his bony shoulder bones against his fingertips. As their lips broke apart, Wilson sighed and stared at the floor, ashamed at himself more than anything else.

"I'm sorry," House muttered, still looking into Wilson's face, although this time Wilson could sense the honest guilt behind his voice. He looked up into that familiar face, and lightly pressed his lips against House's once more, pulling away quickly this time.

"No more," Wilson said, beginning to slip away from his corner, heading back down the hall towards the front door.

House looked like a child being sent to "time-out". His shoulders had slumped forward slightly, and his face was that of utter resignation. He looked up at Wilson as he reached the doorknob and turned it.

"I'm here," House said at last.

"I won't be looking for you," Wilson said bitterly.

"Doesn't matter," House shrugged, "I'm still here."

"I need a friend, House: someone who will comfort me, not force me to forget. I can't do this."

House swallowed, silent and still for a moment, like a placid lake before the winds sweep in, disrupting its serenity. It was clear that he was on the brink of a decision, behaving as Wilson had been throughout the past painful week.

"I'm here," he said at last. Wilson could not help but smile as he opened the door to House's apartment and stepped out into the brilliant sunshine.


End file.
